The Navel of Azeroth
by Lucretia Stormsinger
Summary: A naga sea witch must stop a diabolical plot to unleash the eredar killed in the War of the Ancientsfrom the Twisting Nether.
1. The Prophesy of the Eredar

Authors' Note:  
Hey, I'm Tyrande Stormrage. I would like to apologize for my last story,  
The Grabbing of Furion Stormrage. The earlier title was inappropriate for  
certain people an I did not know. This was because I am young and my  
teacher told me this. I forgive the people who flamed me and I hope you can  
forgive me too. Thank you, and I hope this story is better then my last.  
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When the sword of the Eredar, old of the old,  
Combined with the power of wind, water, fire, and stone,  
Will with the chosen one weld,  
And create a warrior of power untold.  
But even with this might and prowess, Behold!  
An apocalyptic battle will still unfold.  
In the navel of Azeroth,  
By the gates of hell,  
The warrior and demon lord will battle and one will be felled.  
If the warrior wins that light be brought,  
But if demons win then light is lost,  
And after this, no matter what the end,  
A song about the warrior will be sung,  
And he will ascend for all eternity. 


	2. Of Wind

Lucretia Stormsinger wiped the mud off her face as she stood back up and began running through the swampy marsh. A furblog looked out from behind a scrub and saw her run by, pursued by dark silhouettes that swung from vines, ran on multiple limbs, and even flew on wings as black as a moonless night. He squeaked and ran away, not wanting to witness the demise of Lucretia. Lucretia stopped, loaded her bow with an icy blue arrow, and fired it at the closest silhouette. It shivered, and fell behind its comrades, but they tarried not for it, instead continuing their relentless charge toward Lucretia.  
  
She continued running, as the extending branches of the swamp tore at her scales and scarred her tail. Slowly but surely, the demotic silhouettes gained on her. One finally shot a dart at Lucretia, but she dodged it, turned, and fired another frost arrow at it. Like the last, it slowed, but its comrades left it behind. She then came out into a clearing, covered in black goo. She dodged left, and waited behind a shrub for the silhouettes.  
  
Then they came. She could finally distinguish them as Trolls, wyverns, and strange semi-transparent wolves, possibly wolves summoned from the spirit realm by a farseer. The trolls and wolves charged into the goo, and found themselves stuck and slowly sinking. The wyverns, not seeing Lucretia, went to help their comrades from the goo. Lucretia, her conscience slowly seeping through the fabric of her fear and hate for the things that had followed her, decided to spare their pathetic lives. She looked at the sky and began chanting strange garbled language and the winds began to swirl around the goo and the creatures struggling in it. Slowly, the winds grew stronger, making an eerie whistling in the trees. The wyverns, sensing the angering of the spirits, flew away among much squawking and wailing. The trolls, for the wolves has long since dissipated, stopped struggling and looking, mouths agape at the winds, by now a ferocious gale. Lucretia gave the last of her energy and the winds tore ferociously at the trolls, lifting them out of the goo and flinging them into the surrounding foliage.  
  
Seeing that they were free, Lucretia ran away, heading for Darkshore, on the north end of Kalimdor. For many months now, the orcs had been hunting her, hunting her for betraying the Night Elves long ago. She had heard that a small encampment of Night Elves was foraging on the Darkshore and that the leader of the party was Tyrande Whisperwind. By allying herself with the Night Elves, she might be able to persuade them to persuade the orcs. Finally, she thought, this nightmare might be over. She continued her trek toward Darkshore, hoping for the best, and that she would not be killed on sight.  
  
* * *  
  
A storm crow flew over the marsh Lucretia had traversed not too long ago. It continued its flight, heading for Darkshore, to meet up with the Night Elf foraging party. Soon, the trolls and wyverns came into view, and the storm crow went to help them. It then saw them trapped in the goo, and the beginnings of a tornado. Deciding that there was nothing it could do, it continued on its journey. A few hours later, the same crow say a small group of five Elves crouched in the bushes tracking a lone naga sea witch. It flew over and landed behind the Elves and transformed into a druid. "This one is dangerous. I saw it take out a whole group of trolls and wyverns."  
  
The others turned around in surprise. One, a huntress, got off her wolf and bowed. "Hello Ardon, Tyrande has anticipated your arrival. How was the expedition?"  
  
"Horrible, we lost all of them. We were ambushed by some crypt fiends. I am the only one left. However, that one you are watching is heading straight for our camp. What are you planning to do?  
  
"We will attempt to capture her and bring her back to camp."  
  
"Are you sure Tyrande will approve of that? As I'm sure you know, the naga were once Night Elves."  
  
"She might be going toward our camp on purpose," an archer said.  
  
The others disregarded this. "She would do no such thing. She knows we would kill her before she got three steps into our camp," Ardon said  
  
"Yes, I'm sorry, that was foolish. So, how do we go about capturing her?" Ardon glowed blue as mana flowed through him, "Come to me, I will tell you. With any luck, we can do this with no casualties." He smiled as the others gathered around to hear his plan, occasionally smiling as they pictured what was about to take place. 


	3. The Dire Plot

Lucretia Stormsinger walked through the forest, awed at the beauty of it all. She glanced to her right and saw a bear wandering away. A look to the left revealed a doe grazing at the ankle-deep grass. She looked at the sky and saw a robin flying gracefully through the trees. She looked at the ground and saw the minute insects scurrying about, carrying out their daily business. Then, she looked at herself and realized that unlike these creatures, she was a byproduct of her race, a mutant whose soul and life were forfeit. Her scaly hide, forked tail, white face, all once part of the Night Elf grace and beauty, but now a disgrace. She began having second doubts about her "great" idea when the winds about her suddenly picked up and flung her into the air, letting her hang.  
  
"What orcish trickery is this?" she yelled to the surrounding forest.  
  
A cloaked figure stepped out from behind the trees. "This is not orcish, we are Night Elves." With this, he pulled off his cloak revealing him to be a Druid of the Talon, quickly recognized by Lucretia, who had fought side by side with them in the War of the Ancients.  
  
"What do you want with me? I mean you no harm!" Lucretia yelled.  
  
The bear Lucretia had seen earlier walked over and turned into a Druid of the Claw. "Then why were you running from the orcs heading straight for our camp?" the druid asked.  
  
"I need to speak to Tyrande. I have been hunted for months by the orcs and I need Tyrande to clear up my record."  
  
"Redemption is impossible for your kind!" the Druid of the Talon yelled. "You betrayed us years ago! We lost many more people in that battle than we should have because of your groups betrayal."  
"I am sorry, however, if I may redeem myself, I will tell you something. I have hunted the undead and have wiped out about six encampments with my group of myrmidons that would have otherwise caused you a great number of losses."  
  
"So what? Our forces would have won in the end. Why do you even want to be redeemed? What would you gain if Tyrande were to accept you again?"  
  
"I.I.I just want to belong somewhere. The only home I knew was with the Night Elves. I didn't even mean to betray you. If I could do that night over again I would change what I did!"  
  
"Very touching. So, here's what we'll do. We will take you to our camp, and let you plead your case to Tyrande. However, we are going to carry you in this." He pulled out a bag, and just as the winds around Lucretia faltered, he put the bag under her and caught her in it. For a moment their eyes met, and then he closed the bag, and gave it to the Druid of the Claw. "Urvon, morph to a bear and carry her on your back. Everyone else, move out. We're going home."  
  
* * *  
  
Three dark creatures sat around a ball, watching the capture of Lucretia. "They are headed for Darkshore with the Chosen One. We need to intercept that band." The dark figure raised his claw and flicked it. Quickly, a small swarm of creatures flew out an open window.  
  
"Yessss, Wozran, we must intercept them at all costs. However, our window of time is slim. They will reach the Darkshore in few cycles of the sun." This dark figure spread open his arms and a cloud of creatures flew out of them toward the window.  
  
"A wise decision, but your minions will not reach them in time. Wozran, give me some mithril. Gruszom, give me some gold." The two creatures extended their arms to the final creature and gave him small bits of silver and gold powder. The third threw it out the window. But as he did, he blew on it, and the powder turned a foul green.  
  
"Razmur, what are you doing?" Gruszom demanded.  
  
"It is time for Sop to catch this band. It will engage the band long enough for your minions to get to there."  
  
"Is all that necessary? Our forces can wipe them out without the help of Sop." Gruszom said.  
  
"Yes, but they are too slow. No living or even dead beast can outrun the sop. Without it, we will have no hope of catching the Chosen One before she gets to the Darkshore," Razmur said.  
  
"Very well, I can only hope the only thing it attacks will be the band. For the simple touch of Sop will make anything a dead creature." Gruszom looked out the window to see a harpy who had been flying by it began to fly away in fear as the green dust came out, but then fell the sea below, dead.  
  
* * * 


	4. Of Water

Lucretia awoke in a black space. A quick look around told her that she was trapped in a bag, clearly made of twigs softened over many seasons. She took out an arrow and began stabbing the bag in pure rage, but it was to no avail. However, after the shifting of her weight to reach the arrow, the bag began to tip off whatever it was on. In seconds, she was on the ground, and the bag splintered, leaving her opened to the night sky above.  
  
"Where are we?" Lucretia demanded to Ardon, who was now looking at her with apprehension.  
  
"We are about five leagues from the Darkshore. We will be there by noon on the morrow," Ardon replied.  
  
"Wait, why aren't you attempting to recapture me?" Lucretia demanded to Ardon.  
  
"You could beat our whole force, yes, you alone could beat all of us. We realize this." Ardon smiled to her. "However, we also realize that, given the right incentive, you may be willing to help us defeat the undead."  
  
"And what exactly would that 'incentive' be?" Lucretia asked Ardon.  
  
"Tyrande telling the orcs to lay off their assault on you," Ardon replied with an almost mocking smile on his normally emotionless face.  
  
"Very well, I accept. However, how can I know you are telling the truth?" Lucretia asked Ardon.  
  
"A good question. Name your price."  
  
"I want my bow back, and I also want one of your troop as a bodyguard."  
  
"Very well. Although, who will be your bodyguard?" Ardon looked around to see his entire troop either away getting food, or looking at the ground and shuffling their feet in apprehension. "Very well," he sighed, "I will do it. How dangerous can she be?"  
  
At this moment, an unfortunate Night Elf screamed in agony and fell down, dead. A green mist hovered about three feet above her corpse, not moving. "What was that?" Lucretia said.  
  
"Something of pure evil," Ardon said. "Everyone, don't touch it. This thing is the pure essence of death."  
  
Lucretia strung her bow with a magically enhanced arrow and fired it at the cloud. It parted, and the arrow flew through, hitting a tree and freezing it down to the lowest roots. The cloud darted at another elf, but she dodged, and the cloud hit a vine, immediately disintegrating it. Soon, the Night Elf band was geared and began their attack on it. Arrows flew, bears roared, and the winds tore ferociously at the cloud's heels as it tore away from the volley of death thrown at it by the elves. Soon, the cloud darted at a storm crow flying high, and it fell to the earth in a mangled heap.  
  
Lucretia realized that this battle was impossible to win and called to the group, "Retreat, this thing cannot be beaten. We must-" Her yell was broken by an earsplitting screech high above them. A dark shape dived at the group with its talons facing down. Closely following it were dozens more. On the other side of the band, a group of small beetle-like creatures swarmed to the ground. Closed in, the Night Elves realized that they had to stand and fight. They drew their bows, magical staves, and deadly claws, to fight the oncoming menace. However, during this commotion, nobody noticed the green cloud slip away into the surrounding forest.  
  
* * *  
  
A wandering Pandaren Brewmaster named Juribon, was out for his afternoon stroll of the forest to find new herbs for his brew, when he saw a strange green gas a few hundred feet away. He furtively approached it, but when it moved toward a tree, immediately killing it, he decided to back off. However, the gas came toward him, forcing him further and further back. Soon, he heard a sound, a scream of pain from beyond the trees. Then, as he backed off further toward the scream, a steady buzz reached his ears. A few more paces back found his back against a tree and the gas still steadily moving toward him. He pulled off his cask from his right shoulder and sprayed a small, concentrated blast of beer at the gas. It moved to the left, stopped, but after the blast passed by him, it continued it's slow approach.  
  
Suddenly, an arrow flew through the trees, an inch from Juribon's face and flew straight and true at the gas. A blue trail flew behind it, ripping off a part of the gas as it flew by. The arrow pinned to a tree, with a small glob of goop on the end, which slowly dribbled of down to the ground, killing everything it touched. The rest of the gas zipped off into the forest, touching and killing odd things as it passed by. A lone figure stepped out from behind the tree and faced Juribon.  
  
"Hello, I am Lucretia Stormsinger, the wandering Naga Sea Witch."  
  
"A pleasure. I am Juribon, the Pandaren Brewmaster. Is there anything I can do to repay the debt of you saving my life?" he asked.  
  
"Yes, we are under attack by.things and we need all the help we can get.  
"Very well. I shall help fight with you. Even if I die in the act."  
  
"Thank you; my friend," Lucretia said with a smile. And the two ran off through the forest to help the rest.  
  
* * *  
  
"Where did that witch go?" Ardon yelled amid the uproar of battle.  
  
"Into the forest. She said she heard something," Urvon yelled.  
  
"A likely story," Ardon muttered to himself. "Urvon go and fetch her. And this time, I don't care for her safety. Just bring her back." With this, Urvon gave a last morale-boosting roar and charged off into the underbrush of Kalimdor. "We shall see if her story was true, if we all live that long," Ardon added as an afterthought, firing a blast of red fire at one of the dark creatures. "Give them all you have. The future of Kalimdor depends on our survival. If the undead are preparing for another invasion, we must warn Tyrande. Fight for all of Azeroth! We will wi-" With this, he was cut off as Urvon, Lucretia and a Pandaren Brewmaster came out of the forest, claws, bows, and kegs of ale at the ready.  
  
"She was telling the truth," Urvon said, "She found this brewmaster in the woods. He is here for our aid," he said, a tad unnecessarily as Juribon incinerated two approaching bugs with a blast of flaming ale.  
  
"At your service, lord Ardon," Juribon said with an elegant bow that looked impossible for someone of his stature and gait.  
  
"I am sorry for doubting you, Lucretia," Ardon said, "You are truly loyal to us, as you said."  
  
"Apology accepted. I hope that from now on, our relationship can be more developed. And now, allow me to introduce you to my squad that I have boasted of." Lucretia sang a beautiful song and called upon the waters miles away. A tidal wave soon approached, picking up dark shapes and creatures, most of whom decided they did not want to be there. As it reached the group, which was slowly losing morale, as the seemingly endless swarms of creatures picked off the elves one by one, it slowed down, releasing the creatures down except for a few. Then, it came upon them and sloughed off the last bit, revealing a group of about fifty myrmidons. They began to blast streams of rock-hard water at the creatures, slowly decreasing their numbers. However, they were not without losses. The bugs would fly down and those not blasted by water, exploded on the myrmidons' skin and the elves' armor.  
  
Lucretia, after firing a frozen arrow, put up her bow, and once again called on the spirits of wind to invoke their power. The winds picked up and blasted the flying creatures away into the night. A few remained that were easily picked off by the archers with their great marksmanship.  
  
The group cheered at their victory, but after taking a look around, saw that one could hardly call it a victory. Corpses of elves, myrmidons, and bugs alike were strewn across the battlefield. The elves mourned for their dead and buried them, while the myrmidons picked them up and carried them off to the sea for an undersea burial.  
  
"Well, we won, but the cost was grievous," Ardon solemnly said.  
  
"Yes, and now we must continue our trek to Darkshore before whoever sent these sends another wave and before that green gas catches up to us. I took a bit off, but it's still alive.or.dead.or whatever it is. It's still there ready to attack."  
  
"You are right. All right everybody, move out! We'll get to Tyrande's camp before noon on the morrow." The elves moved together and began the final stretch to Darkshore. A full moon hovered over the battlefield, illuminating the corpses of all those who were slain, as small creatures came to pick up any weapons left over.  
  
* * *  
  
Razmur slammed his fist into the table the three were seated around. "They failed. The chosen one called upon her comrades to help her. She has now also used two of the elements: wind and water. We cannot allow her to go an further."  
  
"She also hit Sop. It is not dead, but a touch is no longer death, only terrible sickness for weeks," Gruszom said with distaste.  
  
"She is a worthy adversary," Wozran said with a sneer.  
  
"Yes, but she cannot stand up against our full strength," Gruszom replied.  
  
"What is your plan?" Razmur asked them.  
  
"We send our mightiest minion, the Loamripper to destroy her. She is too strong for our mind magics to enslave her. Both sides must go without the power of the Chosen One and the sword of the Eredar."  
  
"This may be wise, but what if the Loamripper fails?" Razmur asked.  
  
"Then we must prepare a backup plan for that oh so unlikely scenario," Gruszom replied without concern.  
  
"Because we are guaranteed to wound her far enough for one of us to go and finish her off," Wozran said.  
  
"We must set our plan in motion before the third elemental stone is found," Razmur said, "The final hour of our conquest is at hand!" With this, he opened his eyes, revealing two fiery green orbs that seemed to penetrate even the darkest darkness. "Loamripper, come to me. Destroy the chosen one. Your hour is at hand! Go fourth and decimate her!"  
  
A huge shape rose from the corner and opened wings larger than the three at the table combined and flew out the window out above the raging sea and winds that howled around it.  
  
* * * 


End file.
